


astronomy in reverse

by helenecixous



Category: Gone Girl (2014), Gone Girl - Gillian Flynn
Genre: F/F, Getting Together, i cant believe this is my second fic for this pairing and no one reads it lmao, rip in pieces, this is probably really ooc bc margo doesn't hate nick but shrugs what can u do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 03:29:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8128694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helenecixous/pseuds/helenecixous
Summary: But every Friday, Rhonda comes in, and she’s always clutching a gigantic styrofoam cup which always she drains and drops into the bin behind the bar before she perches on the middle stool and always orders a whiskey, her chin resting in her palm as she surveys you with those eyes that are fifty shades of indescribable.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elainebarrish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elainebarrish/gifts), [firelordazulas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firelordazulas/gifts).



> shout out to alex and tori for fuelling this fire yo

Your days at The Bar get longer and longer. You’ve become tired of being a footnote to your brother’s chapters of life, tired of being around him now you’ve seen him at his worse, because even now, months after that whole shitstorm, he still oozes your father. You see his facade crack more and more each day, watch his eyes harden when he talks at you or about Amy, even when he’s around Boney he assumes this derisive air that you’re not sure he’s aware of. You could have forgiven him for this lapse in decency if it had crawled back under whichever rock it had been hiding beneath once Amy reappeared, but it hadn’t. He’s still acting like a douchebag  _ all  _ the time, and the times you’ve mentioned it (harshly, granted, but you’ve never been gentle with him), it’s ended up with him flying off the handle, yelling at you, accusing you of being a misandrist and a hypocrite, and  _ why can you not see that this isn’t my fault, you-  _ and you’d dared him then, you’d looked him in the eye and dared him to do it - to call you a stupid bitch.

That had been months ago, and you’ve not spoken to him since. He stops coming to The Bar, and you can only assume that they’re living off of Amy’s parents, pretending that she’d not tried to have him killed, and you start to dread going home each night. Moving into your childhood home had once seemed to be a brilliant idea, had once provided comfort and aided you in your mission to preserve any kind of warmth your mother had left behind, but now when you get back you’re greeted only with the sour, pungent stink of off alcohol and the shrill shriek of silence. It isn’t as though the alcohol smell is because of you - you realise that some shitty part of your subconscious is out to get you by recreating that intrinsic part of your childhood. Only, when you were a kid and you came home to a house awash with the smell of whiskey and an atmosphere you had to wade through, Nick was always wading right next to you. Not that you’d be able to stand next to him  _ now  _ without wanting to deck him, but still, it's a strange thought that there's a whole part of your life that's shifted and effectively been cut out. You had dared to believe, once upon a time, that you and he would be against the world forever, but apparently even sharing a womb isn't enough to ensure a lifelong tolerance for each other, and already your life is quieter, simpler, you’ve got more time to actually do what you want to do instead of spending all of your time trying to control and clean up and apologise for the collateral damage that follows Nick Dunne around wherever he goes. So you spend more time at work than you perhaps should, both because it’s homey and you enjoy the company, and because you’d rather wipe down tables than stare blankly at your television. Plus, longer hours mean you’re getting more business, and after the whole Amy debacle, The Bar has become something of a Missouri landmark. But you do hope this is only temporary, no matter how good it’s been for your bank balance.

Shortly after you stop talking to Nick, The Bar gains a new regular. If you were talking to Nick, if you thought he actually gave a shit about anyone who isn’t his own arrogant self, you’d be inclined to think that he’d spoken to Rhonda Boney about you, asked her, or maybe prompted her into offering to pop in and keep tabs on you as you keep tabs open for her. You know that you’ve taken a turn for the sour, but that’s really only around him, and that’s only because he’s been a prize douchebag and you’ve never backed down from matching that kind of fuckery. But every Friday, Rhonda comes in, and she’s always clutching a gigantic styrofoam cup which always she drains and drops into the bin behind the bar before she perches on the middle stool and always orders a whiskey, her chin resting in her palm as she surveys you with those eyes that are fifty shades of indescribable.

This Friday, it’s tipping it down outside and even though you’ve told yourself again and again and again to not get attached, to not start  _ expecting  _ her to come, because as soon as you do that, you’re fucked, you still wake up each Friday with a small glimmer of hope for the day. You’re not holding your breath on her showing in this rain - not even the most regular of regulars has bothered tonight, but of course, she defies the odds, surprises you, and she comes in. She comes in with petrichor clinging to her hair and when she leans over the bar to throw her cup away she smiles at you, and you catch a sharp smell of fresh coffee over the staler, older layer, and the whispered hint of tobacco on her sleeve.

“You don’t have to keep checking up on me, y’know that, right?” you say, because what you really want to do is wax lyrical about her nervous tics and the wrinkles around her eyes and the way her jaw meets her neck and the way she seems to soften, to blur at the edges when she smiles.

She just raises an eyebrow at you and looks pointedly to the bottles behind you. You take the hint, and you’re foraging around for a clean glass when she replies. “What do you think I am, your babysitter?” she asks. “I’m not here to nurse you - a fully grown woman - because you have a wet blanket with a mean streak for a brother and a probably clinically insane sister in law.”

“Why else would you be here?” you ask, setting a glass down and pouring her drink. “Unless you’re some kind of t-shirt-wearing-lesbian-fetishist.”

She fixes you with an amused smirk, and you feel the promise of a blush kiss the back of your neck.

“You really didn’t try very hard with that one, did you?” she asks. “T-shirt wearing lesbian?”

You prop your elbows on the bar and grin, rolling your shoulders in a half hearted shrug. “The best I could do on such short notice.”

“I’m disappointed.” She swirls the whiskey around her glass and then knocks it back with unflinching professionalism. “If I’m going to be accused of being a fetishist, I’m only going to accept the best possible variant. Unless you’re on a crusade to mention the fact that you’re a lesbian every single time we speak.”

You flip her off, and by now you’re definitely blushing. You can feel the colour high on your cheeks, and it’s not helped by the fact that she’s watching you and her face is caught in an almost smile. Her eyes are alight, and that’s ridiculous because that isn’t something that happens to real people in real life, but it’s happening right now and you know that a camera won’t ever capture her and do her justice.

You give an exaggerated shudder, and do your best to look frightened. “What’s worse than people thinking you’re straight?” you ask. “‘Straight’ in this town means Nick and Amy types, and I mean both the perfect American couple as well as the ‘they could kill each other at any given moment’ type.”

Boney laughs. She properly throws her head back and laughs, and you’re simultaneously delighted and disgusted with yourself. Once she’s recovered, and you’ve had time to blush over three separate things about her, she looks you up and down. “So, have you finally succumbed to inertia and just moved in?”

“Excuse me?”

“To The Bar,” she prompts. “Have you moved into The Bar?” She makes a show of looking at her watch. “It’s, uh - it’s pretty late.”

You vague your way through an explanation, something about extra cash and not wanting to rattle around your house alone, and she watches you until you stutter to a stop. You force yourself to not lower your gaze as though you’re ashamed of whatever your life has become, and instead you fix her with a warm smile. “Customers are coming in later,” you say, giving her a pointed look.

“All right,” she laughs, holding her hands up in a surrender. “Point taken. But, let’s be real, if you wanted to be at home - truly, you’d have kicked me out already or you’d be locking up before I even get here.”

You pull a face and square your shoulders. “What makes you qualified to make all of these assumptions?” You know you’re being a bit of a knob, but it isn’t  _ really  _ your fault - going on the defensive when you’re around authority figures is something that must have been built in. Maybe you’d stolen all of the character and personality in the womb. Maybe it’s actually your fault that Nick is such a loser.

“You mean - apart from my  _ actual  _ qualifications?” Boney asks, matching your (false) bravado with that sarcastic eyebrow raise of hers. “Y’know, it’s not like it’s my job or anything.”

And what do you say to that? It’s too cliche to start admitting that you’re actually desperately lonely and that everything about this town leaves a sour taste in your mouth. What would she do? How would she react? You don’t suppose that Boney is the type to be confronted with Actual Genuine Feelings very often, and it feels too formulaic, what with the rain battering the windows and the almost ghostly light that happens when the last dregs of daylight have nowhere to go because the clouds are too thick to let darkness in to settle properly. You can imagine it now; both of you existing here with a bottle of spirits between you, your voice the only thing competing with the rain and keeping silence at the door, as you tell her all about yourself, and then she’d talk about herself, tell you more about her daughter and maybe her ex husband (the twat), and by then the night would’ve crept in and draped itself carefully but heavily over The Bar, and you’d have to get up to put some lights on - but the rain would’ve turned into a storm and the power would be out, and you’d have to dig out some candles because neither of you would be ready to leave this series of moments behind. You’re in the middle of wondering when you got so disgustingly sentimental and soft when you become aware that she’s said something, and the air between you tastes like a question. Fuck.

“I’m sorry-” you say, and you can feel heat creeping up the back of your neck. “Miles away. Say again?”

She smiles, kindly, and you kind of wish that a bolt of lightning would choose to strike right now, as if Zeus himself has some kind of vendetta against you.

“I asked if you wanted me to walk you home,” she repeats, and there’s something in her eyes that feels like pity.

Panic settles in the pit of your stomach, although you’re not sure whether it’s the thought of actually going home that does it, or whether it’s the sudden anxiety that she somehow knows that you need (her) someone. It is, after all, her job to know such things, to be able to read an eye twitch as a cry for help.

“Are you trying to usher me out of my own bar?” you ask, plastering on a quick and entirely unconvincing smile. “The heating is broken at home,”  _ lie  _ “I’m fine walking myself back,”  _ lie  _ “and I’m not very good company when you’ve been around me for more than ten minutes at a time.”  _ Truth. _

“I don’t think that’s true,” she admonishes, and to your utter, utter dismay, she picks up her coat. She looks determined.

“Which bit?” you ask, and now you're being a brat because you're not sure you know how to be anything else when you're around someone who inspires both admiration and terror in equal parts within you. 

“I'm gonna go out on a limb and say all three of those things,” she says, and makes a big deal about glancing first at you, and then at your coat, and then at the door. 

“Honestly,” you mumble, reluctantly dragging your coat over your shoulders. “I'm perfectly capable - no, I'm  _ more  _ than capable of walking home alone.”

She sighs, and for a second you let yourself believe that she's going to back down, but then she puts on her best rough and tough detective voice, and you're so far fucked it isn't even funny. 

“Margo fucking Dunne,” she says firmly. “I'm walking you home, I'm not asking you to marry me.”

This, of course, makes you unintentionally resemble an affronted, spluttering traffic cone, and when she goes to the door and holds it open expectantly, she leaves you with no choice but to follow her. And truthfully, you've followed worse people into worse weather conditions before. 

 

The rain leaves no space for conversation, which blows, because you've got an entire stream of nervous babbling that's been brewing since you started feeling out of your (admittedly shallow) depth. You're so overcome by your need to convince her that you're a fun and competent adult that you're not even one hundred percent aware of the fact that you're outside your front door, and you're both soaking, and you're automatically digging in your pocket for your keys. 

“You're a bit preoccupied tonight, aren't you?” she remarks, probably registering the vacant look on your annoyingly expressive face, and it's then that you look at her and see that she's wearing a black bra, because for some reason her jacket is open and her white blouse is now transparent due to the rain. For a single second, you wonder whether she'd left it open on purpose, and when she smirks at you, you can only blink at her, because is Rhonda Boney actually flirting with you? Or are you just projecting like hell? You fit the key into the lock, and as you both get out of the rain you reason that it's probably the latter. You reach past her to flick the light on, and laugh. 

“I'll go and get a towel,” you say, “do you want a drink? Have you eaten?”

She looks up from where she's taking her shoes off, and grins. “Towel, yes. Drink, yes. Uh, coffee? Please? And food, nah. Not yet.”

 

You're not exactly sure when, why, or how it happened, but it's like you come to or wake up, and Boney is curled up on your sofa next to you. She's showered, and so have you, and her hair is loose and surprisingly wavy. She's wearing your oldest t shirt - you've got no idea why you gave her  _ that  _ one - because it's been washed and accidentally bleached so many times that you've forgotten what colour it's supposed to be. Right now, it's a kind of off-grey, and when the light catches it a certain way it's got a rusty tint to it. It's about eighty percent hole, and it's got - you're mortified - Sonic the fucking Hedgehog on it. So she's got her legs tucked beneath her and she's clean and warm and she's got Chinese takeout on her lap, and your house smells like her. 

The television’s on, but neither of you are paying too much attention to it, partly because it's  _ Back to The Future  _ that's on, and partly because you both seem to be more interested in each other.

She's telling you something about a case she's working on, but you're a little bit distracted by the realisation that Boney has effectively manage to force herself into every aspect of your life, and you feel foolish for believing even for a second that Nick might have had anything to do with this. Of course she's amazing enough to have picked up on whichever signs were there on her own, without needing to be prompted by your idiot brother. And you let yourself think that maybe, just maybe, she's here because she wants to be, and not just because you've been coming across a bit sad or standoffish. Plus, whenever Nick or Amy crops up in conversation, she looks as fed up as you feel, so she's not exactly likely to do something or anything he tells her to. And it's unsurprising, seeing as she'd told you a few weeks ago that theirs was the case that had almost cost her her job, and then you'd started hating your brother and his wife with a renewed vigour. 

She reaches past you so she can swap her rice for her coffee, and you laugh, prompting her to look up at you. “What's so funny?” she asks. 

“Are you allowed to give blood?”

“Why would I not be allowed to give blood?”

“Well, is it even blood at this point?”

“Do you know something about me that I don't?”

You close your fingers around her wrist and pull her arm towards you gently, and turn it so you can inspect her forearm. You trace a fingertip over the visible veins on her wrist, and you don't miss her shiver. 

“I figure at this point, you're just coffee,” you joke, but there's a complete shift of atmosphere, and she doesn't laugh.

You look up from her arm and meet her eyes, and there's a strange look on her face. You've still not let go of her arm, and she turns her hand in yours so she can slip her fingers between yours and they close around your knuckles. 

You feel your stomach tie itself into knots, and you swear you can taste your heartbeat beneath the vague taste of metallic panic.

“Steady on,” she breathes, and you look down and see that her forefinger is resting above your pulsepoint, and that does nothing at all to calm you down. You lock eyes with her, and it feels like you stay in that moment, that awful gut churning purgatory, those Seconds Before, for hours, days, until she runs her finger deliberately over your wrist, and she looks down as she slowly raises your arm and brushes her lips over your hummingbird pulse, and everything shatters.

You surge forward and catch her chin gently. Your eyes meet again and she just barely nods, and you fall forward, become liquid as you flow towards her, fit yourself perfectly against her and she’s soft and warm and she tastes like coffee and Chinese food and something that’s so completely  _ her  _ that it makes your head spin. She kisses you with such an intense and focused - what? What is it? Desperation? - that when you break apart you’re both breathless and flushed. You reach out and run your fingers through her hair, half waiting for a mumbled excuse and a hasty goodbye, but then her fingers are curled in the fabric of your t shirt and she’s pulling you back to her. As you part your lips for her, you make a note to one day thank Amy Elliott Dunne for almost having Nick executed and throwing Rhonda fucking Boney into your path as she did it.


End file.
